“Ulbeeheist?” Phoebus repeats.
“A monster.”
I’m still reeling over the fact that my aunt is also Dante’s. Which means she’s a Regio. Which means— “Bronwen is the rightful queen!” I whisper-gasp.
Eefah wrinkles her button nose. “Cian is mate. Not Lorcan.”
It takes me a moment to make sense of her comment. “There’s more than one throne in Luce, Eefah.”
“Only for moment.” She makes her index fingers kiss. “One day; one throne.”
Has Bronwen broadcasted her newest prophecy? I hope not, because I stand by what I told Bronwen—I willnevermurder her nephew.
The air churns with wingbeats, then heaves with smoke as a second Crow materializes beside Eefah—Connor.
As he exchanges a few quiet words with Imogen’s younger sister, Phoebus’s slack jaw snaps closed, and he rushes to put order in his pillow-mussed hair. Under other circumstances, I would’ve grinned at his preening, but my staggered brain is incapable of bending my lips, much less shutting them.
Eefah turns back toward us. “Imogen not free, so Connor come with us. I hope okay?”
While Phoebus proclaims that we’llmake do, my lips tighten, and I stare at the wall that separates this room from Lore’s, imagining Imogen’s unavailability is due to being caged by a certain someone’s bedsheets.
Fifteen
My teeth have been welded shut since Eefah and Connor flew us out of the Sky Kingdom.
However hard I try to find joy that I’m headed home—and by sky to boot—I get assaulted by another image reel of Imogen and Lore tangled together that dampens my mood like the storm dampens my clothes and the vibrancy of the Racoccin woods.
The only reason I can come up with for why their coupling infuriates me is because it proves that Lorcan Reebyaw is no better than Dante or any of the other monarchs—all of them philanderers with loose morals and looser slacks.
I’m starting to believe that loyal men are an endangered species. Perhaps Sybille is right and I should lay to rest my romantic aspirations of findingthe one. I’m done reading romance novels.
I’ll visit the Great Library in Tarecuori, the one Nonna forbade me from entering because blood is needed to gain access. Though she hadn’t known the true nature of mine, she’d known there was something curious about it.
There, I’ll borrow medical, religious, and political journals. Essentially, any story that contains plenty of gore and a healthy dose of horror instead of heartwarming banter. I might as well harden myself to the world and prepare my mind for the battle I plan on participating in.
The prospect of stepping into the five-storied temple of knowledge smooths over my prickly mood, which smooths over some more when laughter rolls out of Phoebus as the wind whips his hair into a blond stormcloud.
“We’re flying, Fal! FLYING! Look how small that marsh looks!” He jabs at the air with his chin, arms bound tightly around his winged steed’s neck. “And those people! They’re sprite-sized!”
Through the jumble of raindrops, I catch the upturned faces of Racoccins wading about, up to their knees in mud, harvesting their drowned crops. I’m uncertain if Lorcan is behind the storm, but if he is, he needs to let up or he’ll end up ruining the humans’ source of income and food.
Phoebus hollers a, “Hello!”
While no adult shouts back a greeting, a gaggle of children wave, running as fast as their little legs can carry them, splashing through the mucky field, soiling both their skin and ratty clothes. Though their faces are grimy, I don’t miss their cheeks lifting into smiles at the sight of our giant mounts.
Like a cloth against fogged glass, their wide-eyed delight clears away the rest of my irritation.
To think that, one day, I’ll be able to soar without the aid of another Crow.
To shift into smoke and feathers and cast spells using droplets of blood.
My heart skips from rib to rib, and I thrum with absolute exhilaration that wanes when a fleet of white-garbed sprites swoop through the air and form a roadblock in our trajectory. “Corvi, you’re trespassing on Lucin soil. You are requested to stop immediately!”
“They’re carrying us to our homes. InLuce!” Phoebus’s golden hair is plastered to either side of his face now that we’ve stopped. “Because we”—he points between me and him—“are Lucin citizens.”
“By decree of the King—” The sprite barking this gets walloped in the face by a massive raindrop, which causes his head to twist sideways and his slight body to sink.
“No Crow is permitted beyond the Racoccin Forest!” another sprite, one wearing a jacket with garish gold buttons, finishes. I take it he’s the battalion leader.
